The Devolpement of the Friends of the ABC
by synteis
Summary: AU. It was a chance meeting for a boy of only ten years of age but it, and the subsequent encounters, would inspire him years later as he was writing the most famous novel of his career. Only slight crossover, deals with the writing of Les Miserables.
1. Meiosis

Title: The Creation and Development of the Friends of the ABC: Chapter 1/?

Author: flyery

Rating: PG-13 (May go to R in later chapters)

Pairing: implied House/Wilson/Chase, RLP+Chase, RLP+House, RLP+Wilson

Summary: AU. It was a chance meeting for a boy of only ten years of age but it, and the subsequent encounters would inspire him years later as he was writing the most famous novel of his career.

Warning/ Historical Note: (potential spoilers) This AU is set during the French Revolution and the period just after it which means it will stretch from the mid-1700's to the mid-1800's. I am aware that there are many different interpretations of the personalities that animated that time-period. Mine may very well be different than yours. House's character Gregoire Coste is based on the real life physician Jean-Francois Coste who really did hold some of the positions I have given to Gregoire Coste. However, I have not used all the information that I found and I doubt that anything like this happened. There is no evidence that Victor Hugo was inspired by anything other than history, but this plot bunny has attacked me so I follow its will. Any questions about the historical aspect can be asked and I'll do my best to give answers or link sites.

Disclaimer: I make no claim to own the copyright for House, M.D.

"_I'm gonna base this moment on who I'm stuck in a room with. It's what life is. It's a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to what our lives are." - Eve: One Day, One Room_

*****

Chapter 1: Meiosis (Age 10)

Parisians will tell you of the beauty of the Luxenburg Gardens. And they are beautiful, every year, the flowers are planted and trimmed by the best gardeners of the nation, every year, they are carefully watched over. But that year, there had been a particular combination of sun and rain, an almost perfect mix. Paris had never seen so beautiful a year in their prized public gardens. And how public they were. Women were walking along the paths with parasols and long-sleeved dresses, the material sparkling in the sun. In another corner, children blackened by smoke and grime were chasing pigeons, carefully avoiding the beginnings of the numerous flower patches. Their laughter juxtaposed the gentle swish of long skirts. Even birds could be heard, calls rising in a crescendo above the others. The noises of the street seemed to scarcely reach this sanctuary.

On a bench a boy was sitting, watching the movement of the populace through the public gardens. He had already been there this year, had watched as the flowers bloomed, had known how beautiful they would be. It didn't really matter now though. The warm months were already too far through, their beauty had already become the norm. Only the interactions held his interest and it was only for a time before he grew bored of them. Instead, his ears hold a new siren call. He stood up and began to make his way towards the slight walls which enclosed the gardens.

Streets were the primary limit to the greenery and on their opposite side were cafes, some more dilapidated than others. From them came the scent of cafe the drink that had been brought from the New World along with chocolat and fruits new to the European palette. All the rage now. Even Napoleon's first wife had come from the New World: Josephine had spoken in a dialect strange to Parisian ears. Someone had once tried to mimic her voice for the boy but they had given up, muttering that it wasn't quite like that. They didn't understand the child's resentment of her; hadn't thought it possible that he'd already have been contaminated by his parents' influence.

Having seen a gap in the string of carts and carriages, the child, who, as all others, wanted to be called man, moved quickly through to end up on the opposite side of the road. Curious, he walked past the cafes, trying to decide which one seemed to hold the most interesting mix of students and artists. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the coins he found there and began counting, hoping he might have enough to buy one of the more expensive drinks that one of his friends had boasted about trying. As he attempted to split his attention between the patrons in the cafes and the coins in his hands, he forgot to leave any of it to check the placement of his feet. The consequence: he tripped in front of one of the many tables. While he was only scraped by the cobblestones, he had managed to unsettle the table enough that the tipping back and forth of the glasses could be heard. Quickly bouncing up, he grabbed the hot cup that was nearest to the edge and calmed the rocking table.

As he began to scuttle away, he was stopped by a firm press on his shoulder. "Wait a moment, let me look at that cut," said a kind voice.

Startled, Victor began to slowly rotate his body to the man, correction men at the table. There were three and it was the one who was neither oldest or youngest who had spoken to him. The youngest must have been in his early forties and the shoulder-grabber in his late forties. The oldest, maybe early sixties. While the youngest' eyes smirked at him, the dissimilar one, the one who had stopped him, showed a degree of compassion that contrasted the other two men's emotion so heavily that the boy wondered why they were at a table together.

Grudgingly, the child showed the man his hands, turning them this way and that to display the redness of the skin and the slight breaks in it. After a few moments of examination, the soft-faced man quickly dipped his handkerchief in a small glass of bronze liquid.

"Saint-Wilson," said the oldest man, " Your pressence has been missed in this city. How could it be that you left it. Soon the streets will echo with calls for you once again. Saint-Wilson. Saint-Wil...son."

Monsieur Wilson, and what kind of name was that, pursed his face slightly before pressing the cloth down on Victor's palm. The sting, sharp and biting made him tense and try to pull away but his hand was secure in its hold.

"I suppose that because I pretend sometimes to be a fuller, better and more caring person who loves all the little children of the world, part of that act has to include helping this little child when he has fallen. The people must know the truth: I am not a miracle-worker." Monsieur Wilson was almost as good as the older man at sarcasm.

The boy, slightly worried that his fall had ruined whatever gathering these men were having said quickly, "I'm not a 'little child' but I'm really quite sorry that I fell and really my hands are fine: there's no reason to examine or treat me or argue about me."

The men don't seem to pay heed. The one who hadn't talked yet was still smirking, watching the scene as an audience member might a play. He made no move to disturb them in their bickering and instead took slight sips from the cup of cafe he had in front of him. As Victor caught his gaze, the man held it and glanced at him once with interest, as though he was studying him, before releasing his awed gaze and taking another sip.

There was a certain amount of reverence to be felt for the man, the boy thought. Though he had probably once had a smoother, younger face, his hair still gleamed gold in the light and was tied back in a low tail by a leather thong that couldn't quite keep some strands from escaping. Most of these runaways were tucked behind his ears. The rest of him: blue eyes, only slight wrinkles at their corners, a lean body, tapered fingers, suggested that he was some prince from a tale who had been dropped into Paris several years ago and had since aged. But Victor supposed that he had been told that his entire life. Any of his comments would lack novelty. The boy still hoped that he had been in the military, an officer or a commander, so that there could be someone in there who really was like the heroes in all the pamphlets.

It was Monsieur Wilson's exasperated, "Coste," (he had been wrapping Victor's hand in the cloth) that brought his attention back to the argument at hand. Feeling that he had heard the name before, he searched back to the conversations he had heard in the past. Having realised who the oldest man, Monsieur Coste, was, he said, "You're Gregoire Coste who went to serve in America?"

With a sigh and a muttered, "I blame you," Monsieur Coste nodded and put up his hand to stop any questions. "No I'm the other Coste."

The boy was disappointed. He'd wanted to tell his friends all about who he'd met.

But the stream of self-pity was interrupted. "Yes, that is me. You shouldn't believe everything you hear. As I'm sure Chase can tell you, he's certainly heard it enough times, everybody then, Wilson's done weeping over you, why don't you scurry along home with the big news of who you've met. No need to tell them what you've learned. Chase, get me another two orders of Scotch, Wilson's contaminated mine. He'll pay you back."

Now Monsieur Chase (and who were the others with their English names who went to a cafe with such an important man) said with an edge of humor to his voice, "House, while you may pretend to never remember another's name, I happen to know that you're adept with faces. And this face happens to remind me of a certain high-ranking officer we met. Your surname is Hugo, is it not?"

An expression of contempt passed over the young boy's face. "My father is a traitor to the history of France. He believes that there is no God and he made my mother leave!"

A chuckle and then, "So you think your opinions make you special? Very different views from his from his father if you are right, Chase. In fact he seems like a miniature version of you when you were brought it. Still," and then a look which the boy could not understand, "I suppose you did prove, Chase, that passion is not a negative trait in the young, or even the middle-aged. Your name then, see if you may prove him right again."

Slightly subdued and yet upset by the patronizing, "Hugo, Victor-Marie Hugo."

A smirk from Monsieur Chase was all the 'I told you so' that he gave Coste, but the boy felt his curiosity slowly bubbling to the surface, "Excuse me, but Monsieur Coste, why did Monsieur Chase call you House? And why do they have English names?"

Having realized that he might very well just have insulted these overwhelming men, he was quick to start speaking again, "I'm very sorry I didn't mean to overstep my bounds, I just…"

But his babbling was once again cut off by the sudden presence of Monsieur Wilson's hand on his shoulder. "You shouldn't torture the boy, certainly not for a question that you would have asked. Besides, he is intelligent and you know he comes from a good family, whether you believe in the inheritance of those personality traits or not."

Monsieur Coste scoffed and then said, "If you are indeed intelligent and educated than you should know about the Revolution. Chase here has blue blood dripping from his veins even if he just came from the minor nobility. So he had a fancy name: Robert De La Chase, but he changed because he wanted to pass for a country boy. Everybody now a day's wants to be somebody else. I found him, I call him Chase. And Wilson sounds far better than Jacques. I dislike the Middle Ages."

"But how did it come to be that you have ended up, years after the Revolution, sitting in a cafe as old friends?"

Another release of air from House, "Time binds boy, you'll know that some day. When you've gone through as much of life as we have you'll understand. It's just the way it works. And us three, we've gone through a whole lot." At a sudden brightening in the eyes of Victor, House adds, "No life stories, I'm sure your mother is missing you."

"I came to the garden on my own, I came to this cafe on my own, I grew here, my mother doesn't worry. And I wasn't going to ask anyways," he says sharply even though he was.

Just then, the waitress arrived and looked at the newest arrival with expectancy, "So what can I get you?" She didn't seem so shocked but based on the way the men have been going at it over his presence, it wasn't because they often had additions to their little group.

The boy looked around the table and saw Monsieur Wilson nod. With a shinning smile, he asked for the price of a chocolat and, having discovered that he had the right amount, ordered one. Monsieur Wilson's smiling now and even House said, "While I suppose if you're paying for it…" Monsieur Chase just sat calmly but at House's comment, the first hints of a smile brushed his cheeks and suddenly, it was as if Apollo walked again. The waitress, returning, saw him and almost triped. Monsieur Chase seemed almost oblivious to this attention, still watching the other two men. Victor supposed it happened often to him. But they noticed and for a moment, there's something in House's eyes, but it's incomprehensible. With the drink laid down and the waitress gone, it disappeared.

The boy stayed until the last drops have been poured from his cup. He put down his few coins, but House brushed them away saying, "Wilson and Chase are splitting the bill, buy something else with that."

Victor was struck by the strangeness of this group. He started to protest but it was both Monsieur Chase and Monsieur Wilson whose hands stopped him. So he gave up, pocketed the money and waved the group good-bye. As he walked back home, he realized that his questions about House, or he supposed properly he should say Monsieur Coste, were unanswered. Shaking his head slightly, he began to skip as he continued on his way home, fingering his coins. Nobody would ever believe him and he supposed his mother might disapprove, but that afternoon was the most interesting one he'd had yet.


	2. Shadows and Their Effects

Title: The Creation and Development of the Friends of the ABC: Chapter 2/~15

Author: flyery

Rating: PG-13 (May go to R in later chapters)

Pairing: implied House/Wilson/Chase, RLP+Chase, RLP+House, RLP+Wilson

Summary: AU. It was a chance meeting for a boy of only ten years of age but it, and the subsequent encounters would inspire him years later as he was writing the most famous novel of his career.

Warning/ Historical Note: (potential spoilers) This AU is set during the French Revolution and the period just after it which means it will stretch from the mid-1700's to the mid-1800's. I am aware that there are many different interpretations of the personalities that animated that time-period. Mine may very well be different than yours. House's character Gregoire Coste is based on the real life physician Jean-Francois Coste who really did hold some of the positions I have given to Gregoire Coste. However, I have not used all the information that I found and I doubt that anything like this happened. There is no evidence that Victor Hugo was inspired by anything other than history, but this plot bunny has attacked me so I follow its will. Any questions about the historical aspect can be asked and I'll do my best to give answers or link sites.

Disclaimer: I make no claim to own the copyright for House, M.D. Also, for Victor's mother's speech, those views are not necessarily mine or the truth. But his mother was in real life very pro-royalist and that is how I have tried to portray her.

_"I'm gonna base this moment on who I'm stuck in a room with. It's what life is. It's a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to what our lives are." - Eve: One Day, One Room_

*****

Chapter 2: Shadows and Their Effects (Age 10)

Though House had suggested it, and he really had to stop calling him that even though Gregoire Coste in his mind looked different than the one he had met, the one who was House, Victor never did tell his friends all about who he had met. Instead, the three men continued to fascinate him. He would go back to the garden and looked over the fence, hoping to find them in their seats, at their table, but without fail, all that was left was three empty glasses. He could not help it that as he went anywhere and everywhere, he would look for them. It was an obsession.

He wasn't ever sure what he would do if he found them, whether he would have the courage to approach them. He hoped he would. But they'd seemed to inhabit a world of the likes of which he'd never seen. There'd been this feeling when he was around them like there was something monumental that was in the making. It wasn't as if they were creating plans for a new world, but they'd somehow achieved something between them that he was unable to describe. It had been his private utopia, even if he'd been teased and they'd snipped at each other. It felt, in this moment utterly unattainable, the way the best foods were after the first bite when he'd want more, but know that he'd never reach that pinnacle again. Even if he knew that though, it didn't stop him from wanting to see them again.

He was walking down the street one morning, one his way to school when he saw, in the corner of his eye, a flash of gold. He turned quickly, ready to call out to Chase. His mouth was already forming the words when he saw the person he had mistaken for Chase. Immediately, the child felt ashamed. The person was female, though she was one of those women who worked and so had pulled her hair back. The child imagined Chase in school, being teased for being looking, what? For having a face that leaned towards beautiful rather than handsome? But Chase had such a presence, there was no way he could have been teased. Still ashamed, the child continued down the street.

Incidents like that kept repeating themselves: he'd think he'd seen one of them but he was always mistaken. No matter where he looked, they were never there. Briefly, he considered asking someone for one of their addresses, but that felt wrong, like some kind of violation of them, of their privacy. He continued to jump at long blond hair, or at blue eyes or at a kind smile. The world seemed to mock him with its constant reminders.

*****

Not seeing them, only seeing false doubles was what first put the fear into him. He began to worry that he wouldn't recognize them, that their faces would somehow be confused in his mind after a time. Walking beside the Seine, he was struck by an idea. The artists there, some of them drew. He thought that maybe he could draw them and that then he'd always have an idea of how they looked, a reference. He begged his mother for charcoal the next day.

At first, everything looked wrong, he couldn't get his hand to work right. But slowly, his lines got better and he was able to draw the simple things around his bedroom. When he drew a bee that was recognizable, he felt ready to try to draw them.

It was harder then he'd expected to draw humans. Without a reference, their faces ended up lopsided, the eyes too far apart and the nose too close to one side of the face. Their images, though clear in his mind refused to be transfered onto the paper. But achieving their faces was quickly becoming an obsession. His hands became covered in charcoal and he developed a hacking cough that wouldn't go away. His mother had come into his room once, hoping to catch him there, intrigued by his change in attitude, his need to know new things and had seen him sitting at his desk, surrounded by curled balls of paper. She caught the beginnings of his current work, thick brown hair, before it was bunched up and thrown in among the others. She retrieved it and unrolled before asking, "Victor, would you be so kind as to try drawing me?"

He was surprised, she'd never asked him to do anything of the sort, but he applied himself, reveling in her attention.

"I'd love to, Maman."

He tried to go slower than he had in the first pictures, she was there, her image wasn't likely to slip out of his mind if he wasn't quick. Slowly, the charcoal was transfered to paper. Slowly the lines built up. The proportions were wrong and the outlines were not always clean, but his mother felt a sense of pride looking at her son. It was better than anything she could have drawn. The next day she took him to the Gardens. He doesn't look over the fence once.

He resisted temptation and the seemingly inevitable disappointment only that one time. Every other one, his head would pop up again, he'd look for their faces on the streets, he'd search for them.

It was his need to find them again that started the problems. Whenever he heard any names similar to theirs, his ears would pop up. So it was no wonder that suddenly, he started to hear rumors about House, Chase and Wilson.

It was in fact, he tried to convince himself, his fault, the first time he heard them. But suddenly it was as though that was all people talked about, because it was all he heard. But while he heard many things that he did not understand but knew better than to ask about, he never heard a word about where they were. It was although they had disappeared from the face of the world, leaving only impressions behind. Only ghosts which mocked him with glasses and names and glimses. It was for him one of the Circles of Hell.

It seemed that what House had told him was true, if rumors could be believed Chase really was filled to the brim with blue blood. Before everything, if history lessons were remembered correctly, he would have been respected, even though he held no great estates. Now, he was mocked and scorned. Victor had lists of how Chase had worked his way into House's good graces, and they ranged from blackmail to some contorted positions. Before the start of this, he'd been, he liked to think, innocent, but having his ears open had brought to him an overwhelming swell of information and none of it lead to keeping one's innocence. But even if Chase had been mysterious, he'd looked at House with compassion and trust, he'd been attached to him, too attached to have done any of this. Besides House had compared the young Chase to him and House had seemed to not dislike him too much so that was another point in Chase's favor. Proof that all the gossip could be wrong.

But logic was his only tool, he could combat the voices with nothing else, he couldn't defend those faces in his mind, couldn't prevent their visages from being damaged by the murmurs. It was impossible. He hoped they wouldn't be too upset he'd heard all this when he saw them again. Because on day he would, he had to believe that. When he saw them, he'd feel that feeling again and everything would be right in the world, the ghosts and the voices would be gone.

*****

His mother's sudden affection, sudden presence in his life was surprising, but he couldn't help but feel happiness at the attention she was giving him. It helped protect him from the voices. And if what she was asking was for from him was to be more open to her ideas than to those of his father, it wasn't such a sacrifice, was it? Being open to ideas was good. He was learning lots, though he still wasn't doing well in the history classes.

One day, he was sitting in his room with his window open. The wind was nice, it curled around his neck and hands, cooling them like it was supposed to. He'd just decided to work on those pictures, he hadn't in a while. His cough had remained but the child seldom paid any attention to it. It was in this moment of creation that his mother walked in. She was carrying a heavy book in her hands with a beautiful cover. It read 'The Great Kings of the Realm of France.'

"I've been waiting until you were old enough to show you this," she said and she did so with the greatest reverence.

"The kings were the greatest heroes the world had ever seen, they had been chosen by God. There's this one, this is Louis the XIV, the greatest of them all now. You know of Versailles, don't you, by Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Well, he built it from nothing. Before there was a small castle with vast hunting grounds. But he'd been born there, so even though it was almost nothing, he decided that it was worthy of becoming more. The people had begun to doubt the king because enemies were spreading nasty rumors. Our great monarch was hurt by the things he's heard and that was why he decided to build it."

"Mother, what is blue blood?" It seemed stupid, but he had to know, had to find out how much of all of it was true. He hoped his mother would blame it on curiosity. Maybe she'd even appreciate it.

"It is the blood that nobles have. If they are pure nobles, they will have very blue blood, that means that they have an unbroken line of nobles marrying each other."

"But Mother, say before, a very rich man bought a very great title, but he'd been a bourgeois for as long his family had and then there was another man who lived in small holdings in the country. And that second man had a family genealogy that showed that he'd descended purely from nobles since the reign of Philip Le Bel. Well, which one would be more noble." And maybe, he's trying to protect Chase, trying to see how his life might have been different because even if Chase was immune to all of it now, he couldn't always have been.

She looked at the boy strangely. "The man in the country has far bluer blood, any other noble he met would know who was, who his family was his family and what important deeds they'd done. But the rich bourgeois would have to be given respect because he'd bought that title. He'd be new blood, tainted blood, but rich blood. Perhaps he'd have been invited to parties but unless he was perfect at blending in, he'd have been much more disdained than the other man."

"And after the Bastille?"

"After the Bastille, the rich man would have faced the wrath of the poor, for leaving the Tiers Etat. But they might have still felt that he was one of theirs. But the other man, the true blue blood, might have, if he'd been a country seignior, used his privileges against the peasants and they would have hated him."

"Even if he was just a boy?"

"Well, I suppose that if they'd taken a particular fondness to him, they might have been kind to him. But they were angry, jealous of the nobles and the clergy. Envy is one of the seven sins for a reason. Their envy and treachery is what caused the fall of the monarchy, but soon it will be restored. The famines that have gripped France are God's wrath because we deposed of the king." It's interesting how everything is different depending on who tells it.

She talked in a dreamy sort of voice. It almost reminded the boy of the feelings he'd felt when he was in their company: the potential of dreams, that heading feeling of breaking from the dorm. Perhaps that's why he began to spend more time in his mother, because she was as close to them as he could get. Because she helps keep them alive. Because sometimes, when he closes his eyes he still sees them and that means more than anything to him.

A/N: I'm still looking for a beta if anyone wants the job.


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